Empty
by bowserissherlocked
Summary: The doctor dances...with the consulting detective? Fluff. Angst. As usual. Sorry. Mentions of drug use. I'll try to write more...
1. Chapter 1: Wake Up

He could see the light pouring through the cracks between the door and its frame. It was a calm, golden light, seeping into the hallway from inside the room. He straightened his jacket once more and gripped the door knob. It was an odd feeling for him, as though he was invading someone else's space even though it was his own sitting room. The door eased open and he stepped inside hesitantly. Sherlock felt his heart flutter at the sight as he entered the room. It was the most relieving experience to be back to the normality of daily life, just as it had been before Sherlock left.

Sherlock mouth turned up in a slight smile as he gingerly leaned against the doorframe. There he was: wrapped in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, gently breathing in and out as he slept. John. He was back in 221 B, as if the entire Mary debacle hadn't happened in the first place. Although John's chair was returned to its original position, John took any opportunity he could to curl up in Sherlock's leather armchair. John had been finding excuses to use any of Sherlock's things now that he was back; he borrowed his scarves, gloves, and pretended to have lost his own robe in the move, even though Sherlock knew it was tucked away underneath the jumpers in the bottom drawer of John's dresser.

He walked lightly over to John and kneeled down next to him, nuzzling his face gently into John's chest. John stirred, woken by Sherlock's light touch. He smiled and stretched a bit, keeping Sherlock's face still burrowed below the scar on his shoulder, right against his heart. Sherlock had also changed a bit since John had returned. As a predominantly stiff and reserved person, the detective had taken to physical interaction with John. He had hugged his flatmate several times within the past few days, and seemed like he couldn't get enough of it. Sherlock had also taken to dancing with John again, just like when he was teaching him to waltz for the wedding. But now, it was more genuine. Less instructive, more intimate. It was a feeling of safety for Sherlock, a warmth and comfort for him, fulfilling his enjoyment of the hobby and pleasure of holding John close in his arms.

John folded his arms lazily around Sherlock and breathed in, smelling the familiar scent of shampoo, stale cigarettes and chemicals from the experiments. Sherlock lifted his head and rose from the floor, lifting John out of the chair with him. He pushed a few buttons on the stereo remote and music began to fill the room. Sherlock pulled John close to him, one hand on his shoulder and the other cupping John's hand. He led John's free hand to the small of his back, letting him lead. John was still groggy from his nap, wrapped in Sherlock's blue dressing gown and still adorned in his pajamas. His hands were dwarfed in comparison to Sherlock's, which were large and calloused from burns and violin playing. But although his hands were strong and rough, they were gentle on John's shoulder and hand.

The music started out quietly, but John instantly recognized the tune. It sounded like a mix of Sherlock's compositions for Irene and the wedding, a heartbreaking blend of a lively tune with melancholy harmonies. John pulled Sherlock closer and rested his chin on his shoulder. His nose was tucked into Sherlock's neck, brushing the glossy curls behind the detective's ear. Sherlock pressed the side of his face to John's head, feeling the warmth radiating off of the shorter man.

They began swaying in small movements, slowly making their way around the sitting room. Both of the men shut their eyes, gripping each other impossibly closer, memorizing the feeling of the other in their arms. The light was still sneaking through the parting in the curtains, a beam of gold reaching out to touch John and Sherlock with its gleam and warmth. John smiled lightly as he gripped at the back of Sherlock's jacket even tighter. John's breath caught as Sherlock moved his head so his lips were pressed against John's ear.

"John."

John hummed in response, eyes still shut and head still resting on Sherlock's broad shoulder. His hand moved up and down against Sherlock's back slowly, and rubbed circles on the back of the detective's hand with his thumb.

"I love you," Sherlock murmured into John's ear, lighter than the quieter whisper but taking John by such a surprise that it was like Sherlock had shouted the three words at the top of his lungs.

Sherlock moved his head back further, locking eyes with John and leaning in slightly, as though to make sure John was alright with continuing. John nodded slightly, answering the unspoken question and leaned in closer so that their lips just brushed off of each other. Sherlock's heart swelled and he could feel the blush creeping up his neck and onto his face. John hesitated slightly before tugging Sherlock by the lapels of his suit jacket so that he was even closer.

Sherlock folded his arms around John's middle so tightly that his fingertips nearly touched the opposite side of his own ribcage. John slid his hands up to tangle in Sherlock's curls, deepening the kiss. Adrenaline surged through both of them, hearts throbbing together at a rapid pace. John had Sherlock's face between his hands, stroking either cheekbone with his thumb like a feather's touch. The detective didn't want this perfect moment to ever end. His eyes remained open, partially in want of intently watching John's face, his long eyelashes glinting with sunlight. But in actuality, Sherlock couldn't allow himself to close his eyes for fear of losing the moment.

As John continued to press kisses on Sherlock's lips, he couldn't stop himself. His eyes fluttered shut as he tried to pull John closer, but it was too late. He could no longer feel the shorter man wrapped in his arms, the pressure of his lips on his own, and the warm feeling that had been pulsing through his veins had ceased to exist. His eyes remained clamped shut, his mind becoming more and more frantic every second.

_I have to get back I have to get back I have to get back John my John get back get back to John_

But he soon realized that it was hopeless. He slowly peeled his eyes open, and it reality came flooding back to him. He was folded in John's faded red chair, in the darkened sitting room of 221 B. He looked around to gain back his directions.

He was wrapped in the comforter from John's bed, which still had that faintest smell of John on it.

The dizziness and groggy feeling usually associated with his drug abuse slammed in his head, unsurprisingly so. A needle stuck out of his right arm, bruises forming around it.

His leather chair was empty. Nobody had occupied it in ages.

The flat was empty. He sat alone.

And along with the drowning sensation of isolation, Sherlock too felt empty.


	2. Chapter 2: Break Up

The light rapping echoing through the flat had done absolutely nothing to wake him up. It started as a gentle, tentative tap on the heavy door, but soon became a violent pounding that rattled the hinges and doorknob. A voice was muffled by the wood, repeating a singular word over and over again. The familiarity of his name being spoken was hopeful but not enough to rouse him from his foggy sleep.

Sherlock had slipped into unconsciousness on the couch, curled up while hugging his knees tightly to his chest. He let one eye crack open, practically glued shut by the crusty dried tears. His eyes were puffy but still incredibly deep-set, bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles indicating many sleepless nights. The knocking on the door continued, but Sherlock remained still, lacking the motivation to move his stiff, tired joints. The needle that had been jammed hastily into his arm last night was now on the floor, and bruises highlighted the skin around the invaded vein.

He heard an exasperated sigh from the other side of the door, followed by the shuffling of feet and the scratching of keys being inserted into the keyhole. John had brought his key. Sherlock made sure that John knew he was welcome back anytime, before he had gotten married. He insisted John keep his key and carry it with him at all times, should problems arise or if he wanted to stop in for a visit. John had then inquired why Sherlock would even need to tell him that, wondering why Sherlock thought that he wouldn't come back unless by invitation. Sherlock had remained silent, not daring to give the answer channeling through his mind: _Because when I left Baker Street, so did you, and I want you to know that I will always be there for you._

But he didn't respond.

The door creaked open, and Sherlock shifted to face the back cushion of the sofa, a habit he had taken on when pouting and sulking from John. What he wouldn't give to go back and take the assistance and company John had offered him when he was in a bad mood. But he had chosen to keep his stiff upper lip and sullen mindset when faced with an unpleasant problem. He realized now that he should have used those times for growing closer to John instead of pushing him away as he had so desperately attempted to do. It was all his fault that John had left him, all his fault that John had moved on, all his fault that John had been hurt, all his fault that Mary had treated him so poorly because _he had left John first. He had avoided his own feelings in order to keep John out of danger. It was his fault that he hadn't seen Mary for what she was. He had caused all of it and John didn't deserve any of it and he didn't deserve John. He never deserved John and never would for what he put the only perfect thing in his life through. _

"What the hell is this?" he heard John say. He spoke in a calm voice, but it was demanding as he moved around the room. He no doubt saw the used cigarettes scattered on the floor, empty bottles of alcohol on almost every surface of the flat, dirty needles and pills laying around in the open. He began to get nervous; Sherlock wasn't responding to his questions, and he was almost perfectly still. John had only seen him under the influence of drugs a month after the wedding, but he suspected that the loneliness of an empty flat and the temptation of the "under cover" work was what caused this sudden relapse.

He gripped the handle of his duffle bag and moved slowly towards the couch. He stood above Sherlock, still lying on the couch, and stuck two fingers against his neck. He felt the slow but steady pulse, and Sherlock had stiffened a bit at the feel of John's warm fingers against the bare skin of his neck. John grabbed his shoulders and attempted to roll Sherlock onto his back, and was fairly successful despite the bony, malnourished man's silent protests. Now flat on his back, Sherlock stared blankly at the ceiling, still refusing John as he demanded to know when exactly Sherlock had relapsed and begun using routinely again. Eventually, John was able to cajole a groggy, slurred answer from Sherlock, "Five months ago. The night of the wedding," he mumbled, still staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

John nodded as if saying that he understood, but remained in a stiff, upright, and seemingly distressed manner. He looked around the flat once more, the smell of rotting food and stale liquor creeping into his mind. The kitchen table was, for once, free of any experiments, as was the refrigerator. His chair had clearly been moved out of the living room once again, for reasons that completely escaped John. Nowhere in his mind did he think that the reason Sherlock had moved the chair was because of the grief he felt after John's departing from Baker Street. Sherlock was strange in his habits, and John knew all too well that the detective was prone to acting upon his ideas faster than he can explain them to anyone. This was what led to many adrenaline induced, spur-of-the-moment high speed chases while out on cases; the ones on which Sherlock dragged a seemingly unwilling John but after which John was more giddy than ever, heart pounding and giggles rising into his mouth and out into the air. It seemed like it had been decades since anything even close to that had happened. John stood now in the hallway leading to Sherlock's bedroom, wondering if he even dared to see what was behind the bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, he briskly cracked the door open and stepped inside. What he saw in the room was the last thing he'd expected.

The room was identical to when he'd seen it last; everything in neat order in the closet, floor and desk clear of random items or papers, and bed made to near military specifications. _Has Mrs. Hudson been in here…?_ But no, there was a strange amount of dust coating the surfaces of the furniture for the room to have been regularly cleaned, and as John now knew, "dust is eloquent." In fact, there was too much dust for any activity to have happened in the room on a regular basis; it had nearly clouded up John's vision when he stepped into the room, and he could see it floating in the air in the beam of light peeking through the split in the curtains. He was still carrying his bag, and decided to put up in his own room. Although Sherlock was obviously crashing on the couch nowadays, John figured that he himself would feel more comfortable staying in his own familiar room while trying to sort out his friend's situations. As he trailed back through the living room, he stopped to place a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder, as if to silently tell him that it would be sorted out soon.

Making his way up the staircase, John noticed another odd change; the door to his room was wide open, when he had always made sure that it was shut before leaving. It was a habit that he had gotten used to while living alone, because he was accustomed to shutting the front door of his flat after he left, but he continued shutting the door even living with Sherlock. It was a natural thing to do for him, not a caution of privacy. But now it was swung open, clearly the room had been accessed recently. He wondered whether within the past five months was recently, but shook the idea off as he reached the top step. The entire room was visible now, and he began to piece things together. His armchair from the living room was close to his bed, with a dip in the seat cushion where someone had been sitting recently. The bed itself was unmade, as opposed to its usual clean lines and precise folds. The floor was covered in dirty clothing, but not John's; suits were hastily crumpled on the ground, a silky blue dressing gown thrown over the desk chair.

This room, too, smelled like alcohol and cigarettes, but not quite so violently as the others. John set down his bag and strode over to his armchair. He sat down in it after pausing for a moment, only to feel that something was not quite right. It was like Goldylocks and the Three Bears; someone had obviously been sitting in his chair-not Goldylocks, but Sherlock. The chair had warmth trapped in it, someone had recently been sat in it. It smelled like Sherlock, but not the smoking, drinking addict Sherlock. It smelled like the tea-drinking, experiment loving detective. It smelled like fresh air, like it had smelled in Dartmoor. Not like the polluted London air, but fresh, open, earthy air. It smelled like Sherlock's shampoo, rich, musky, expensive and from a small shop in Paris (although Sherlock hated to admit it). It smelled like _Sherlock_, it was _him,_ it was what he had subconsciously been missing and wanting ever since the wedding. Ever since the fall. Ever since he met Sherlock. John wondered what all this meant. He'd only been gone for five months, could Sherlock really be grieving his absence so much so quickly?

Then it hit him. This was exactly how he'd acted after Sherlock's fake suicide. Long, lonely nights with no violin to lull him to sleep. No bickering before bed. No sleep. Barely eating. He had even, admittedly, spent many nights sleeping curled up in Sherlock's chair, or Sherlock's bed, trying to get the last bit of him out of the ridiculous things his best friend had left in the flat. The last smell of him, the last sign of him, the last hint that he was still there and would be coming back to him later on that night. The last hint that they would sit and drink tea and discuss whatever case they were working on. The last hint that Sherlock would stay with him forever in that stuffy old flat with the wonderful landlady and the awful wallpaper and the huge messes left on every inch of surface on the flat.

He stood, rising out of his chair, and quietly padded down the stairs. When he was next to the couch, John nudged Sherlock's legs up and sat at the opposite end of the couch. Sherlock straightened his back a bit to allow John to sit.

"Sherlock, I know it's been hard for you. I know how it feels," John said. He paused, waiting for a response, but there was none. "But I've come back. At least for now. Mary and I are having…difficulties," he swallowed and clenched his fist, "and I'm here because I'm worried about you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, but quietly managed to mumble, "Why do you care about me so much?"

It almost killed John that Sherlock would even ask that. Of course he should care about his best friend, why would he doubt that? John knew that Sherlock wasn't the best person when it came to emotional and social skills, but how could he think for a second that John didn't hold him in some of the highest regards when it came to his safety and health?

"I care because…you're my best friend, Sherlock. And you always will be my best friend, no matter what happens. You should know that by now, genius." He nudged Sherlock's leg gently, smiling at the other man. The edge of Sherlock's mouth seemed as if it was going to raise into a smile, but he remained in a grimace, huffing loudly. "And I care about you. More than you know. More than I think you'll ever know, to be honest," he continued.

It was quiet for a moment. The only sound to be heard was the two men's steady breaths, filling the air. "I care about you as well, John," Sherlock responded, "More than _you_ know. So, so, so, _so_ much more than you know."

Tears threatened to spill over in Sherlock's eyes. But he kept his emotions at bay long enough for him to stand and exit the room, shutting himself in his room for the first time in about six months. John sat alone on the couch, contemplating what just happened. Was Sherlock….crying? Sherlock admitting to care for John was perhaps the greatest compliment he had ever given him, even topping his best man's speech. Whatever had changed in Sherlock in the past months, John was confused by and determined to bring to surface. After all, something had changed in John too.


End file.
